


Crème Anglaise

by stepquietly



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Creampie, F/M, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything comes with a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crème Anglaise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cthonical (Nellie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/gifts).



> Many thanks to[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/profile)[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/) **novembersmith** for the beta! Any remaining mistakes are mine.

She can see the minute Will figures it out, the result of Hannibal’s deliberate choice to serve her a red wine, in deference to her tastes, over the white normally called for with the meal. It’s like waving a flag before a bull and waiting for a reaction, watching Will’s nostrils flare while he shuts his eyes.

The whole thing is unlike Hannibal, unsubtle and almost tasteless, and while the majority of her mind starts to think of ways to deal with the fallout from the situation, a small part of Alana slots away the thought that she and Hannibal are going to need to discuss what led to such a strong display in front of someone who would’ve divined it with far less; whether this is insecurity about her casting aside her bonds with Will (ridiculous since Hannibal is the one still inviting him to dinner) or whether this is something more, some form of mating instinct she’d previously considered Hannibal too reserved for. Whatever it might be, the result is a declaration she’s been anticipating and dreading in about equal measure.

At least Will waits long enough for Hannibal to leave the table for the kitchen, though his opening volley is about as blunt as can be expected. He twists his head to the side as if he can’t even bear to look at her and grits out, “Are you _kidding_ me? Have you lost your _mind_?” Which is rich coming from him, given how Will’s out in the aftermath of having tried to _kill_ Hannibal.

She keeps her gaze steady and brings her hands up to rest them, folded, on the table. Restraint, understanding, distance; she’s careful with her posture. “I hardly think it’s any of your business.”

“He’s a serial killer.” Will’s posture has already started to mirror hers, she notices, though his hands continue to grip the table. _Still unstable, persona fracturing under stress_ , she thinks, melancholy somewhere deep inside under the anger that comes with knowing that he won’t help himself.

“Will, if you’ve decided -” Alana tries, but Will cuts her off, finally making eye contact, sweaty, mouth tight-lipped, “After everything I’ve told you, after what _you know_ I am and what I’ve told you he is, you’re choosing to eat at this table.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” His hands are all but claws on the table now, eyes squeezed closed, shoulders pulled in as if he’d like nothing but to launch himself at her.

“Yes, Will. Right now, the way you’re acting? And the way he is? I’m more afraid of you.” She’s been making this point for months now, over and over through his incarceration, through his trial, through everything, that he’s unstable, that being unstable is frightening for those around him. “I know what you did when you were in that facility. _We know_. If anyone at this table is a killer that I should be worried about, it’s you. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re even here.” She looks towards the kitchen where Hannibal is, probably meticulously arranging their next course. “And I don’t think this - whatever this is, is good for either you or Hannibal. It’s not safe, Will. You’re the one that’s not safe. ”

Will flinches under that, and Alana can’t even hate herself for enjoying it. If being gentle won’t work anymore, then she’ll be tough with the best of them. “You’ve spent all this time making accusations. Where’s your proof? After all this time, where is it?”

“Beverly died trying to find proof.” His voice wavers before it firms, “I’m done with that. He’s the Ripper.” Will says it with a conviction she’s never seen from him, sweating, trembling, meeting her eyes so she can see just how far his pupils are dilated. “He _is_ ,” he forces out, like repeating it will somehow make it more true instead of the one feverish delusion they haven’t managed to cure.

Even with all the anger bubbling under her skin though, Alana can’t bring herself to give up on finding some sort of answer that will get through to him. “If he is, then how do you explain being at this table, Will? If you genuinely believe all the things you’ve told me, told us _all_ ” - she includes Hannibal, Jack, the ghost of Beverly Katz in this - “then why would you ever come back here? Wouldn’t that make you just as broken, just as dangerous?” She needs Will to understand the fracture between what he’s saying and the way he’s been acting.

“Oh, I’m sure Will understands perfectly,” Hannibal offers as he sweeps into the room, plates carefully balanced.

There’s something horrific almost about watching the way Will changes, his posture subtly straightening, mouth firming, chin coming up at an angle, like facing off with an opponent. Except he’s mirroring Hannibal, and Alana doesn’t know what it means that Will suddenly seems a hundred times more dangerous this way than he did when he seemed a step away from reaching across the table to - to -

Alana doesn’t know how to finish that sentence any more. 'Hurt her' isn’t something she’s ever thought about before, but then she’s having to rapidly revise so many of her previous assumptions when it comes to Will.

And it’s not like it escapes her that Will’s mirroring of Hannibal reveals edges in Hannibal she hasn’t really wanted to see. The two of them sitting across from each other, urbane, slicing their meat into slim cuts before they pierce them with the tines of their fork, and she shivers, feels almost speared between the two of them.

“As you say, Dr. Lecter,” Will offers, voice smooth as gravel, and Alana realises she’s lost track of the conversation.

“What?”

“I was just telling Will that there can be a kind of euphoria that comes from recognising one’s wants and needs and having them seen to.” Hannibal swirls the wine in his glass, sniffs it delicately before sipping.

Alana can feel an almost curious numbness pass over her. “He thinks he needs to kill you, Hannibal.”

“Not every need necessarily, then. But perhaps Will has other needs that are easier to see to. Perhaps another long held desire he’d like to come to terms with.” Hannibal smiles into his glass, puckish, even as he closes his eyes to better savour the taste.

Will drops his fork with a clatter onto the dish’s surface. “No.” His hands are back to being fists on the edge of the table, white-knuckled with the potential for violence.

“Come now. I’m sure Alana has considered the thought once or twice. I’m certain _I_ have,” Hannibal offers, and oh, _oh_ , he means -

“No,” Will grits out, and Alana, still taken over by that curious numbness, feels the urge to press his limits as well, show Will that much as he might choose to play with the two of them, that he is beyond his depth. That she is as capable of hurting him as he seems to be capable of hurting her; perhaps more with these sorts of tools.

“Why not?” Her voice is steady, curious, abstract. Almost the way she might sound during a session, except her heart is racing underneath the thin veneer of detachment.

Will looks up at her and his edges are back. “Because I thought we didn’t play those games with each other, Dr. Bloom.”

Hannibal cuts in. “Will, please, if anything is to happen tonight then you must take the first step. She is Alana, I am Hannibal, you are - ?”

“Not playing this game.” Will surges to his feet and Hannibal pushes his chair back to stand as well.

“I thought you were done being a coward.”

“I thought this was something you’d normally discuss with your partner first.” Alana flinches. Will has always timed his shots well but that one feels harsher than most.

“I trust Alana enough to tell me if this is something she does not wish to experience.” Hannibal looks over at her, meets her eyes for what feels like the first time all night, finally transferring his attention over to her from Will. He’s still staring at her when he says, voice almost hypnotic, “I wouldn’t have suggested this if I thought it was something none of us could truly give you, Will. And I believe Alana and I would benefit as well from your euphoria; unless I’m mistaken, it would be partially our own.”

Will flushes, shoulders curled inwards, and Alana finds herself flushing as well, breathing harder as Hannibal walks to stand behind her chair, places his warm hands on her shoulders so she feels pinned under them, the expanse of them a hands-breadth from her breasts, nipples beginning to peak and push forward.

There’s a heat in this, the idea of them both, the idea of being caught up in their wave, to let them bring her along as a part of this so she can have it without necessarily acknowledging how the thought of it is starting to get her wet, starting to make her want to tilt her head back so Hannibal can drag his hands up from her shoulders along her neck to just under her jaw, hold her still for all his kisses. Hannibal leans down and she drops her neck back automatically, baring her throat at Will, amused at the symbolism even as her breath quickens, small huffs pushed out of her. Except -

“Tell him, Alana,” Hannibal coaxes, leaning down so his cheek is pressed to hers, the rasp of his stubble a counterpoint to the heaviness of his voice under that accent. There’s so many levels of wrong here, far beyond the roles of therapist and patient that Will and Hannibal insist on making a mockery of, beyond even the fraught relationship that she and Will have spent so much of their time tiptoeing around; there’s Hannibal’s manipulation of the two of them, the fact that he’s dangling her like a bone in front of Will, except

Except, no. That’s not quite right either. That Will wants her she’s assured of, and she and Hannibal have more than enough between them, but there’s an undercurrent of want here that’s stretched taut between Will and Hannibal, the two of them circling each other.

So she tests her hypothesis, murmurs “I will if you will” and has the satisfaction of feeling his hands spasm on her shoulders.

“Touché,” he says. “Yes, I confess I’m not opposed to seeing where things stand between Will and myself either.”

“Hannibal.” Will’s voice cracks.

Alana feels more than sees Hannibal stiffen. “We’re all adults here.” He trails his hand over her cheek, and Alana leans back into her chair and turns her face into it, leaves her eyes on Will, watches him watch that hand.

He swallows, once, twice, and then forces out, “fine,” as if the words are ripped right out of him.

* * *

 

It’s nothing like any of the fantasies Alana has entertained about either an anonymous threesome or these men in particular. In her fantasies, she’d always imagined Will to be a rather sweet, hesitant, perhaps mildly submissive lover, all slow kisses and dog hair on the bed; a sort of quiet passion. Instead Will is pushy, glasses discarded on the tabletop and already licking into her mouth even before he brings his hands up to the buttons of her shirt.

Between the width of his shoulders and her smaller frame, he’s got her back pressed up against Hannibal’s front, hips angled so she can feel his thigh pushing up against her crotch, fast and frenzied, a counterpoint to the way Hannibal’s hands and pushing slow, steady strokes along her hips, calming even as they remind her of him.

“This is what you want,” Will grits out, half question, even as he gets his hands on her breasts, scrapes a nail over a nipple as he dips his head down to bite at the juncture of where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Yes.” Hannibal’s voice practically oozes satisfaction. Alana can feel him slowly unzip the back of her skirt, the material loosening and then pooling around her ankles. She half-expects him to start undressing himself, or to return his hands to her hips, but instead his hands come around her to hold Will’s head steady where he’s nipping small kisses against her neck. It’s a gentle gesture, for all that Will stiffens the moment it occurs; her body bracketed between Hannibal’s arms, Will held against her.

“Relax, Will,” Hannibal orders and Alana doesn’t even know why she’s surprised anymore that Will responds to the order. He goes back to dropping kisses against her throat, though he ups the ante by scraping his thumb over the edge of her panties, pushing the cotton against her clit so it feels good and uncomfortable at about the same time.

“Gentler,” Hannibal admonishes, finely attuned as always to the needs of everyone in the room, and Will uses his fingers to tuck the material inside, to circle his thumb in a slow, careful stroke along from her clit to where she’s wet, leaving it there so she can push down against it, try to grind her hips until it slips in. “Good. That’s better.”

“I do know how to do this.” Will’s voice is tight, angry.

“And I know Alana.” Even Alana flinches from that one. “If you are going to do this, I must insist that you savour the moment. It might not come again.” It’s like he’s providing an instructive reproof, though Alana can’t imagine this leading to something more permanent, can barely believe that it’s happening now.

“Let me show you,” Hannibal offers, and then he moves so Alana can’t lean back into him anymore, has to lean forward onto Will’s thigh and onto Will’s hand, his fingers dipping into her cunt, his thumb still circling her clit. Will’s watching her face and Alana knows she’s gasping, keeps her eyes closed because _god_ , Will’s surprisingly good at this. She can feel herself getting wetter, clenching down, hips angling so he hits the right spot more often than not.

Then suddenly Will’s hand and his thigh is gone and Alana’s left feeling cold and bereft, teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

She opens her eyes to see Will frozen, eyes squeezed shut, as Hannibal brackets him from behind, arms coming round Will’s sides to unbutton his shirt. Hannibal’s got his mouth up against Will’s ear, is murmuring something Alana can’t hear, and Will’s shaking his head even as the flush along his throat is deepening, rising into his cheeks.

She moves closer, her own hands going to Will’s belt to unbuckle it, pull it free of its loops so she can unzip Will’s pants. Hannibal spares her an appreciative glance, and Alana isn’t unaware of how that makes her shiver, lets her feel sexy and confident enough to go to her knees and pull Will’s boxers down his thighs so she can see his cock, hard and flushed and leaking fairly copiously.

“Think of this as simply another new experience. You’ve had so many,” Hannibal whispers into Will’s ear, the fingers of one hand coming round to tangle in Alana’s hair even as she bends forward to lick at Will’s cock, to close her lips gently around the head and suck. Above her she can hear Will groan, and she slips a hand down to push her panties aside and finger her clit again, thighs damp and hot.

“Alana,” Will warns, his hips making an abortive thrust, and Alana finds herself looking up at Will, the two of them mostly naked and on the verge of coming while Hannibal watches them, still dressed, hair barely mussed even as his expression -

“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” he grits out. Alana’s tempted to tease him about his haste, except she _wants_ by this point, _wants_ Will, wants Hannibal, _wants_ to fuck them both, and she lets Will’s cock go, comes up to her feet guided by Hannibal’s hand still in her hair and lets herself be led straight into a kiss, Will’s breath puffing over her cheek while Hannibal tastes him on her tongue.

“Bed,” she whispers and leads the way, confident in Hannibal’s home now and knowing that they’ll follow.

By the time she pulls off her panties and sits back on the coverlet, Will’s already got his knees on the bed. She shifts back so he can come down over her, licks his lips open and kisses him, wet and breathless even as their hips rub against each other, Will leaking a small patch of wetness onto her hip as he thrusts, desperate.

She mutters “pill” as she reaches down and guides him into her, the stretch of it mixing with the way his body is hot, sweating over hers. Will’s got his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her nipple, his hips working hard enough that his balls are slapping against where she’s dripping down into the crease of her ass, and Alana looks over his shoulder to see Hannibal watching them, eyes hungry even as he slowly strips, each piece of his suit carefully placed on a nearby chair.

That Hannibal is watching them, Will desperately murmuring her name even as he bites down, shockingly hard onto the ball of her shoulder as his thrusts get more erratic; Alana has to get a hand on her clit, slips it in between their bodies - Will’s so much hotter, so much sweatier - so she can feel his cock shoving into her even as she gets her fingers on the hood of her clit, rubs until her toes clench and her muscles start trembling and then she’s squeezing her eyes shut and coming, _finally, finally_ coming.

Will’s gasping above her, his own muscles trembling, suddenly still even as she’s working her hips onto him, practically fucking his cock from under him. “Alana,” he whispers, eyes squeezed shut. He’s shaking but it’s almost like he’s stuck somehow, can't quite push himself over the edge he's come up to. She reaches up for him to pull him down onto her, to soothe even as her cunt is still clenching down on him. Hannibal’s moved to come sit by them and he’s already whispering, “there’s no point in holding back now, Will; the cow is gone and there will be no milk anymore,” and then Will is crying out and gritting his teeth, warmth and wet spilling out into her as he shakes, face screwed up into a rictus of anger and want.

He slumps sideways off her, curls on the bed so he’s faced away from them, knees drawn up towards his chest. Foetal. And Alana’s hardly done processing that when Hannibal leans over to kiss her, mouth demanding and hands pushing her thighs apart so he can rest himself between them.

“Sweet Alana,” he whispers, and there’s a second where Alana wonders, cynically, whether that’s actually aimed at her or whether it’s intended for Will, before her attention is taken up with the way Hannibal kisses his way down her stomach and her pelvis and then, using his thumbs to hold her open, starts to lick up the come that’s only just starting to trickle out of her.

She wants to call his name, to urge him to stop, to say something about how Hannibal’s fascination with Will is perhaps just as disturbing as Will’s obsession with him, except the only thing that she can do is moan “ah, uh, ah”; the sounds pushing themselves out of her as she pulls her legs in tight against Hannibal’s shoulders and yanks his hair hard between her fingers.

Hannibal knows her, knows to slip a finger into her even while he feathers tiny licks along the edges of her slit, tongue pushing in with his second finger and going up all the way to her clit. “Please,” she whimpers, and Hannibal gives her three fingers, works them in her even as he slowly pushes his tongue just above the hood of her clit so Alana’s throwing her hand out, desperate, writhing against the bed.

She grabs onto Will's hand, squeezes it as her body tightens and she keens her way through her second orgasm.

Hannibal gentles her through it. He uses longer, broader laps of his tongue, kisses her cunt before he comes up, face smeared with her come - perhaps with Will’s come as well - and surges up towards her face.

Except he doesn’t kiss her, no. He kisses their joined hands, her and Will’s, and leaves a smear on where they overlap.

Alana looks over in time to see Will watching Hannibal, eyes narrowed and contemplative, a hand stroking his half hard cock almost absently. It’s still wet from her, from them.

Hannibal huffs a sigh and leans down to kiss her, tasting of them, as he guides his own slightly larger cock into her cunt. He’s careful about it, for which Alana is grateful. She's still over-sensitive from her last orgasm, small tremors still shaking the muscles of her thighs. He rolls his hips gently, eyes on hers, and Alana feels confident enough to turn her head and watch Will watch Hannibal fuck her, even as she keeps her hold on Will’s hand.

By the time Hannibal comes, she’s enjoying the feeling of him moving but isn’t ready to come again. Hannibal, ever the gentleman, goes down on her again, guides her to a small come that makes her tighten her grip on Will’s hand.

When Hannibal shifts so he can move up the bed and settle on her other side, she leans back into him before she meets Will’s eyes, conscious of the way they’ve been watching her and Hannibal move together. That Will is still angry with her despite having clearly enjoyed everything that happened isn’t a surprise, but she’s still hurt when he looks past her to Hannibal. She’d almost expected judgement. She isn’t quite prepared for this feeling of... dismissal.

“I know why you did this,” he offers, and Alana feels Hannibal smile into the skin of her shoulder.

“And why did I do this, dear Will?”

Will swallows. “Everything comes with a price.”

Alana tightens her hand on Will’s, curves her body more firmly into Hannibal’s. She knows she'll regret this but. “And what was the price for tonight?”

For a second she thinks Will won’t answer her, watches him wrestle with himself before he forces out, swallowing repeatedly around the words. “Accepting that I might not be able to save you.”

The admission has the bitter tinge of the truths Will has given her, and Alana is repulsed by it, all the different levels of what it means, the renunciation it implies.

She’s still swallowing it herself when Hannibal reaches across her and kisses Will, tilts his face back so he can murmur, voice soft and controlled as it always is, but tinged with something faint, almost like, like _pride_ , when he says, “a breakthrough, Will.”


End file.
